


Learning to Walk

by Nestra



Series: Baby Steps [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-15
Updated: 1999-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One step forward, two steps back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Walk

You know, there are times that I envy the control Jim has over his body. I think it's fair to say that most of us have to argue with our bodies on occasion. I mean, does your body ever really want to do those last few sit-ups? Or get up when the alarm goes off in the morning? But I have a sneaking suspicion that Jim's body does what he tells it to, when he tells it to, without question. He tells it to bench-press a couple hundred pounds, it snaps to attention. He tells it to sprint down that alley and over that fence in pursuit of a perp, off it goes.

And when he tells it not to give into its need for me, it obeys. I know it doesn't want to--I can hear it damn near calling to me every time he stands in my doorway and watches me. It wants me. He wants me. But for some reason, he'll be damned if he'll give in.

The past several months have been both strange and wonderful. For reasons Jim hasn't bothered to explain to me, he started showing up at my bedroom door to watch me masturbate. I mean, I guess on some level, I always knew he could hear me. He's got ears like a bat; if anyone knows that, it's me. He generally tries not to invade my privacy, but when it's late at night, and the rest of the loft is silent, there's not much else to hear. So he's always known when I reached down to pull my cock out of my shorts. He's heard every slide of skin on skin, every near-silent moan, the slight hitch in my breathing when I hit that perfect spot.

And at some point, he decided to come down the stairs and watch me. And for reasons I haven't bothered to explain to myself, I let him. The logical and sane thing to do would be for me to stop jerking off so much…stop giving him something to watch. But I haven't stopped. And I won't. I enjoy it too much. I like knowing that there's a flaw in Jim's control, and that I'm the cause of it. He may not be willing to completely give in to his desire for me, but the fact that he's standing in my doorway right now, staring at me, is proof that he's vulnerable too. He's struggling with the same feelings I struggle with.

"Can I watch?"

He always uses those same words. It's become a ritual, every action pre-defined, every movement mapped out in advance. He always waits for about five minutes after I start before he comes downstairs, like he's giving me a chance to stop, to back out. Then he gently opens my door, without knocking, letting in a sliver of moonlight to slant across my bed. He watches silently for a moment, while my hand continues its motion, and then he asks the question.

I never bother to answer him, because the answer isn't what's important. He knows the answer. What's important is that he said it--he actually verbalized the words. It's a small victory, but I've become accustomed to rejoicing in small victories, these past few months. He never used to ask. He couldn't say anything at all, couldn't bring himself to participate in any other way. Like he was ashamed of it.

I don't want him to be ashamed of anything. I'm certainly not. I don't understand what we have here, but it's precious to me in a way nothing else has ever been. And I don't want to do anything that might damage it. So I never question, never push, not even when I hear his hand shyly stroking himself.

He's stroking himself now, near-silent movements that I can barely discern in the dim light coming from outside. By contrast, I'm not quiet at all. I used to try to keep silent, but I decided one frantic night that Jim should know how turned on I was by all of this. So his sensitive ears hear the slick sounds that my hands make and the gasps and moans that escape my parted lips. I only pray that he's half as turned on as I am.

I think he is. I catch hints of it during the day, little sidelong glances that last only a second but are filled with incredible heat. At least, I think that's what they mean. He's hard to read, with all the distractions that fill our day. I can tell when he wants Wonderburger but won't admit it. I can tell when he thinks a suspect is lying, or when he's biting back a rude comment that Simon has inspired. But this ritual of ours…it's a strange kind of dance we engage in, never mentioning it in the daylight hours. We act as if everything is normal, never acknowledging the existence of these hidden desires. These midnight interludes are a complete 180 -- totally surreal. It's always dark, and we don't speak much, so it's easy to pretend that they don't happen. That question of his is the only thing that makes it real.

The question started appearing about a month into this, and I think we owe that to Jim's innate sense of fairness. I bet it's been tearing him up. He thinks he's taking advantage of me. Never mind that I'm the one with the power to stop this. Any time he shows up at my door, I could tell him to leave. But I don't. And so Jim has forced himself to start asking for permission to watch. And I let him, every time.

I'm letting him watch as I wet my finger in my mouth and slowly press it into my body. I wonder if he's ever had the courage to try this, lying alone in his bed. He certainly enjoys watching me do it. The signs are subtle, but they're there. The quiet intake of breath. The restless shift of his body. He leans against the doorway for support, and I want nothing more than for him to lean on me. But he won't. Every time he's come down here to watch me, every orgasm we've shared--he's never touched me. Even when we shared a bed a few weeks ago, he very carefully stayed on his side.

How did we end up sharing a bed? I got tired of waiting, and I pushed him. After he showed up at my door, after we both came with gasping breaths, I asked him to stay with me. And to my surprise, he did--for a little while. He slipped into bed next to me, and he even slept for an hour or two. I know he did, because I woke up from my uneasy doze and I watched him, for a change -- watched his armor fall away as he slept.

And when he got up a few hours before dawn and fled back to the safety of his room, I pretended I was asleep, and he pretended like he couldn't tell I was awake.

I was worried that he'd be scared away, that I'd pushed him too far. But on the contrary, his visits have been getting more and more frequent, like his need has been growing. I understand the feeling--needing another person like you need a drug. It's scary as hell. That's why Jim has convinced himself it's just about sex. I know he has. It's the only way he'd allow things to continue on like this.

Because Jim doesn't run from trouble. Not any more, and especially not when it concerns me. He learned that lesson after Alex. When he has trouble with his senses, he comes to me. When he's feeling whacked out emotionally, he talks to me about it. Not happily, and not without a lot of bullshit male bluster, but he talks. About everything except this.

Look, given a choice, I would happily take this out of the realm of solo pleasure. Jim just hasn't given me that choice. I think it may have something to do with his obscure need to deny himself things he really wants. And I blame that on his father. I've seen how Jim interacts with William and Steven. Let's not forget, I'm a professional observer. I've based my career on deducing the past from small fragments of information. And I'd stake that career on the following proposition: Jim's childhood was not fun.

No expense spared in the Ellison household. Material goods on display everywhere. The finest china, the polished silver, the jade sculptures, so that everyone around can see that the Ellisons have money to burn. Screw keeping up with the Joneses -- we've left the Joneses in the dust.

But personal needs--I'd bet those were a sign of weakness. Have to be strong. Have to be a man. Never let 'em see you sweat, or I'll make you feel about six inches tall.

So now, even though Jim is forty years old, old habits die hard. He has a really hard time asking for what he wants. He has to know that I'd give it to him. How could he not know? After all, I'm the same guy who's been letting him watch me come on an almost nightly basis. But I wonder sometimes if he doesn't prefer it this way. You see, Jim has this thing for the unattainable. Like Laura, and Lila, and Alex. And now me. But damnit, I'm _not_ unattainable. I'd much rather have _his_ hands on my cock, _his_ fingers pressing inside me, opening me up so that he could move inside me and make me whole.

I don't want to be his ritual any more. I'm tired of waiting, tired of both of us being alone when we don't have to be. It's time to push again. We may not talk about this during the day, but I've thought about it a lot. And I've decided that the best way to break out of this holding pattern is to exploit to his biggest weakness.

"Jim, touch me."

He starts at the noise--it's been so quiet in here for so long, with only moans and slick sounds to disturb the silence. As my words sink in, I see him tense up, preparing to leave.

"Please, Jim," I ask breathily. I've got no problem begging for this, and I know that if I let him leave now, he'll never come back. Whatever it takes, I have to help him take that next step.

"Please," I say again, trying to pour all the longing and the frustration and the love into my voice. He's still not moving, so I pull out my trump card.

"I need you."

It's a cheap shot, because I know that he always does his damnedest to give me everything I need. But I've never asked for him before. Maybe this time, it won't be enough. If he's ashamed of his needs, maybe my needs only make it worse.

A faint sound from across the room catches my attention.

He's shifting slightly in place, now, like he wants to move but can't make himself to it. And I realize that if I push any more, it'll destroy everything. I've said the words, brought it out in the open, but he has to do this for himself. Otherwise, neither of us will ever know if it's real or just one more thing I talked him into. He's just got to take those steps that will bring him across the five feet that separate us. And it's the hardest thing he's ever done. It's like learning to walk again. As he steps into the faint light coming through the window, I can see the struggle reflected clearly on his face.

He kneels next to the bed and suddenly his big hand is on my cock, and I nearly black out from the pressure of reality. Jesus, I never realized what it would feel like, what it would mean for him to actually touch me after all this time. Despite his hesitation, his hands are sure, his calluses somehow managing to hit all the right places. It's horribly intimate, and I don't ever want him to stop.

And I want to touch him too.

I reach out for him, but somehow he twists away. His strokes intensify, and it dimly occurs to me that if I don't get my hands on him soon, I'm going to be coming by myself. I blindly reach for him again, wanting to touch him the way he's touching me, to give him the same incredible pleasure I'm feeling. But my hand encounters air instead. I lift my head and force my eyes to focus. I can't see the expression on his face, because he's not looking at me. His head is turned to the side, as if he can't bear to watch what he's doing.

Then I realize. He's moving away deliberately.

Oh, God. He won't let me touch him. Shit, this is not good. Maybe he really is ashamed of this. Of us. Maybe the heavy breaths that I took as a sign of arousal really meant panic. I may have just made a colossal mistake, but I don't know what else to do but keep talking.

"Let me touch you, Jim."

His hand stills, and the room falls completely silent. I can't even hear him breathing. All I hear is the sound of my heart, which is trying to pound its way out of my chest.

All of a sudden, he lets out an explosive breath and slowly climbs into bed next to me, and I feel what I couldn't see -- he's shaking. And not from need. It wasn't shame that kept him away. It was fear.

He's muttering quietly, words spilling out in between gasps and tremors. I catch something about want and I hear my name, but one word really stands out.

"Please..."

He sounds so scared that I feel an answering knot of terror in my chest. I know what I want, but I don't want to coerce him into anything. I can't. I can't do this, oh God, can't be responsible for him, for his happiness and his sanity…

"Blair?"

And then it really hits me. There's _no one_ else. If I don't make him feel loved, no one will. He's finally gotten the courage to admit what he needs, and there's no way in hell that I'll let him down.

"Shhh," I whisper. "It's okay." I reach over and shove his boxers down to his ankles, and he kicks them off. He's still trembling, so I lean in close to him, feel his short, panting breaths on my face, and then I kiss him. His lips are cold, and I warm them with a swipe of my tongue before pushing into his mouth, rubbing my tongue against his.

His hand is back on my cock, and miracle of miracles, he's kissing me back. He's still gasping, but now there are quiet moans mixed in, and when I thrust my leg between his thighs, the moans aren't so quiet any more. I guess his body is tired of being denied.

I break the kiss and slide two fingers into his mouth before he can close it, and after a startled second, he sucks them, laves them, slips his hot tongue between them. I pull them out and meet his eyes.

"You know what I want?"

He nods slowly, tentative blue eyes finally locked to mine.

"Is it okay?"

He nods again, but it isn't enough.

"Say it, Jim."

When he speaks, I can barely hear him. But it still counts.

"I want it."

My still-wet fingers trace a line down his side, into the crease of his thigh, and down between his legs. He's still staring at me, and his eyes widen as I gently circle his hole.

"It'll feel good, I promise." And that's it, I can't waste any more time on reassurances, I have to feel him now. My fingers press inside him, slowly but inexorably, and his body and I are suddenly communicating on a whole new level. He's hot, so hot, and I roll him over so that I'm sprawled out on top of him, rubbing my face against his chest and thrusting my fingers deep into him. He strokes my cock harder, the rhythm faltering slightly as he gets caught up in what I'm doing to him. Me -- I'm the one doing this to him. It seems almost more unreal than all the events of the previous months.

Stretching up, I kiss him again, luxuriating in the taste of his mouth. My free hand slides down his body to grasp his neglected cock, and that's all it takes. Three strokes, and he's pulling away from me, crying out as he comes long and hard. His hand is still on me, and I thrust into it, adding my long, drawn-out moan to his cries.

When my head clears, I grab a t-shirt from the floor and mop him off -- slowly, because I can tell that he's overloaded. The t-shirt goes back on the floor, and I maneuver us around until we're wrapped up together, heads on the pillow.

He's still shaking, so I wrap my arms around him and hold him together. "I love you," he says, but there's more terror than love in his voice. I hold him even closer to me and murmur soothingly to him. "It's okay, Jim. I love you, too. It'll all be okay."

"Blair…" he says, and it's not a question.

"I know, Jim. I know. Everything's gonna be fine."


End file.
